


After All

by tirsynni



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirsynni/pseuds/tirsynni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the streets of Dale in the Fourth Age of Middle Earth, a man is more late than he realizes, but a Dwarf's patience can last forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After All

He was late, he was late, he was so late! He _hated_ being late. He prided himself on his timeliness, even if he _knew_ he was the only who usually cared. That wasn’t the _point_.

William (“Please, please, call me Bill, I always feel like I am in so much trouble when someone calls me William”) hurried down the streets of Dale, light feet helping him dart past merchants and soldiers. His father had told him tales of how Dwarves and Elves used to intermingle with Men here in Dale (indeed, it was telling such tales to his darling nephew which led to his lateness in the first place) but the other races had largely vanished since the beginning of the Fourth Age. He had been in the middle of telling his nephew that when the boy mentioned the time.

And now he was late!

Bill looked down at his pocket watch just when a merchant swung around his arm. Bill caught a glimpse of a full arm of pocket watches (fake, all of them, didn’t the man have any pride at all?) right before his backhand struck Bill full in the cheek. Bill slammed to the ground so hard it knock the breath from his lungs. Someone cried out close to him, but he saw no one pause in the flood of traffic around him.

_Now I will truly be late_ , Bill thought muzzily.

Bill’s cheek throbbed as he carefully pushed himself into a sitting position. People glanced at him as they milled past but none stopped. With growing despair, Bill looked down at his trousers and overcoat. He was late and now he was filthy and his face hurt and that damned merchant was still calling out his –

“Fake pocket watches!” Bill exploded, and the space around him subtly increased. Now the stares grew wary instead of pitying and curious, but _still_ none of them stopped. Not even a single soul checked to see if he was all right! “If you are going to be so immersed in your wares that you are going to strike hapless pedestrians, then at least take the time to sell halfway decent items. They are so fake I am surprised they are not made out of sticks! Have you no shame?”

Oooh, and his poor back hurt, too. Ignoring the merchant as he abruptly fell silent, Bill dragged himself to his feet and tried vainly to knock the dirt from his clothes. Possibly he should be happy he had only fallen in dirt and nothing else, but really! He shouldn’t have fallen at all!

Bill took a moment to look at his pocket watch (perfectly real and respectable, thank you) and cursed. Late! So late! It would be a miracle if his customer was still waiting for him.

“Who are you calling fake?” the merchant demanded.

Oh dear, and now he was all turned around. Bill stood on his toes and looked until he caught sight of the pub. Several large men were just leaving. Hopefully none of them was his potential customer. What had he said he would be wearing? “I never said _you_ were fake, just your wares. _Do_ listen when someone is talking to you, please and thank you.”

Maybe if he ran – Bill yelped when the man grabbed his arm and yanked, almost sending him to the ground all over again. For the first time, Bill took a good look at the merchant ad flinched. The man was a good head taller than him (his mama swore it was their Fae blood which kept his family on the small side) and easily twice his width despite all the custards creams Bill ate. His face looked like someone had beat it with a board several times, and Bill had to physically bite his tongue to keep from pointing that out. The merchant shook Bill like he was trying to jog something loose as he snapped, “What did you say?”

Bill felt new bruises blooming under the merchant’s hand. Excellent. All he needed: his overcoat to be even _more_ scuffed and more marks on his tender skin. Bill tried to pull away, but the man’s grip didn’t give an inch. Really, Bill thought he had been _more_ than patient with this idiot and he freely told him so, adding, “Now if you don’t mind letting me go, I’m late as it is.”

His cheek still throbbed, and Bill _knew_ it was going to leave a horrendous bruise. He could envision not only the disappearance of a hopeful customer but also having to explain this to his nephew. Frustration rising like trapped steam within him, Bill yanked at his arm again, only for the man to yank it right back, this time pulling Bill so close they were practically nose to nose. This close, the merchant clearly towered over him, his breath rancid in Bill’s face. Bill wanted to offer him a bit of mint; he grew plenty in his back yard and could easily spare some.

It wasn’t until the man raised his other hand that Bill realized the crazy fool intended to hit him _again_. “Hey!” he yelped, pulling back, but he couldn’t get away. Around them, everyone just _watched_.

Except one of the men leaving the pub. Before the merchant could move, a massive hand gripped the raised fist. Now it was the merchant’s turn to cry out and try in vain to move. In awe, Bill watched the dark-haired stranger easily hold the merchant’s hand still. He saw the muscles in the stranger’s arm flex under his shirt, but otherwise the stranger didn’t move.

“I think you have done enough,” the stranger said, and his voice soothed something inside Bill, all dark and hot like cocoa on a winter’s night. Bill shuddered and stared and knew he had to be hopelessly rude but…but… The merchant argued but Bill didn’t hear a word of it.

He only took notice again when the man finally released his arm. It should have been a relief, but the sudden rush of blood only made his entire upper arm hurt. He grimaced, and the dark-haired stranger turned to look at him.

When their eyes met, even the pain in his arm seemed to vanish.

_I know you_ , Bill thought. He knew those solemn dark eyes, the shine within them. He knew them as surely as he knew his own eyes in the mirror.

The stranger released the merchant. Instantly, the man scrambled away. Bill didn’t give a damn.

“Are you all right?” the stranger asked. Bill could happily soak in that voice for the rest of his life.

Bill cleared his voice and hoped he didn’t look a _complete_ mess. “Yes, yes—”

Oh. Oh dear.

Bill swallowed and stared at the silver broach on the man’s cloak. One of the artifacts from Erebor, he believed, based on its visible quality and intricate design. Erebor was one of the few – possibly the only – Dwarvish strongholds known to make designs based on plants and herbs, and this one looked like it was designed with a flower in mind. Just like he had been told his customer would wear.

“Ah, fine, fine,” Bill squeaked. “I, ah, I apologize for being late for our appointment. I was, ah, held up.” Quite literally, really.

The no-longer-a-stranger smiled, and it lit up his previously stern face. Bill wanted to slink home now. “William?”

“Bill,” he corrected automatically. Of course he recognized him as one of the men leaving the pub earlier. Sick and tired of waiting for Bill, he believed.

Oh, dear. Oh dear oh dear –

Warm fingers brushed against his throbbing cheek, and Bill winced. Definitely a bruise.

“We were just leaving the pub,” the man – oh, what was his name again? – explained, gesturing behind him. Bill didn’t bother looking. After this disaster, he would be lucky to see any of them ever again. He couldn’t blame them for it. “Why don’t we get something for your cheek?”

Wait, what? The man smiled at him, and helplessly, Bill smiled back. The man’s hair and beard were intricately braided. Bill wanted to touch them. “You don’t have to –”

“I insist,” the man smoothly interrupted. He wrapped an arm around Bill’s waist like Bill needed the support, and no way was Bill going to tell him otherwise.

“Thank you,” and his memory finally flashed with “Thormond.”

The man’s smile grew, something mischievous in his dark eyes. “Please. Call me Thorin.”

 


End file.
